October 27, 1937


The blast tore through the door, showering me with splinters.

It was a hell of a greeting, but one I was prepared for.

The man had used both barrels of a shotgun, and when I heard him break the weapon down to reload it, I stepped past the door and fired the Colts through the hole left by the shotgun. One slug took the weapon out of his hands, the other sent a piece of the stock into his chest. The wheeze that followed told me he was a dead man.

Still, dead men can kill.

A quick glance in showed his hands were mangled from the destruction of the shotgun, and so I kicked the door in wide enough for me to enter.

He was dressed in a uniform that, had there not been an expanding bloodstain upon it, would have been impressive. Through bared teeth, he growled at me, and so I put a round through his right kneecap to put him in a better frame of mind.

“Name?” I asked, keeping my eyes on the entrances to the room.

“Colonel Van,” he hissed.

I nodded. His was one of the names on my list.


When he didn’t answer, I shot him in his left kneecap, the bullet catching just right and tearing off his leg at the joint. For a moment or two, he screamed, and when he paused for breath, I repeated the question.

With blood-frothed lips, he grinned. “Doesn’t matter. I’m dead.”

“’Course it matters,” I said, and I shot him in the stomach.

The impact sent him spiraling out of the floor and onto the chair, blood pumping out onto the dirty wooden floor. I reloaded the Colts and watched as his hand reached for a revolver half-hidden by his shirt. I waited until he grasped the butt, and then I stepped forward, drawing my knife in a single motion.

The blade snapped out as I slashed down and took his hand off at the wrist, just as he touched the smooth wood of his pistol.

He died a moment later, and I cleaned my knife as I stepped around the drying blood.

My list was long, and the day was short.

#fear #horrorstories #paranormal

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Nicholas Efstathiou

Husband, father, and writer.

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